


A Pearl of Great Price

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Premise: that, as I suggest in "The Body You Wear," an angel/demon's body has an effect on their experience. That some forms come closer to being a spirit's "real" self.That Aziraphale has not been shown in female guise to the best of my knowledge. That he may, for a range of reasons--not least the prudishness of Heaven--have been avoiding it.That at long last, in the care of his demon, he allows himself to experience one of his female forms.The name "Margaret" is chosen because of the poem "Spring and Fall to a Young Child." It is commonly translated as "a pearl."





	A Pearl of Great Price

Aziraphale looked into his own eyes in the mirror: blue-grey dappled with the lightest washed brown near the iris. Hair a brushfire of white waves. A face of a type common enough in the Western shores of the various British Isles: shield-shaped, with a decided nose begging to turn up at the end and not quite managing it. A solid, cobby body, like a Welsh pony, graceful, with good bone and just a bit of plush.

He knows this body. It’s his favorite. When he wears this one, he feels like himself. Other options languish in the realm of potential; Aziraphale remains garbed in this form.

Crowley’s different. Crowley changes his body often—mostly variations on a theme, but so many variations. Aziraphale has seen Crowley in so many versions of sleek, dark, and slinky—young and old. Male and female. All races—though always dark, and always with at least a faint trace of red in his hair. Always with golden serpent eyes.

Aziraphale has loved Crowley in all the forms the demon has shown him…and has been loved by him. He’s found the unifying spirit that makes all of them Crowley, and has felt that Crowley caress him with small, feminine hands, narrow-palmed, long-fingered, strong. He’s accepted kisses from the stormy Elizabethan fellow who looked almost like ordinary Crowley, until his doublet was off and “he” became what might now be “they.” Or not. That Crowley had taught Aziraphale things he never knew his body could do until then.

Crowley has offered him a cornucopia of Crowleys. All ages. All genders. All sizes and styles.

Aziraphale is different. He has only offered his lover this one.

“I’m not comfortable in the other options,” he told Crowley. “They don’t fit right.” He squirmed, telling the demon that, and added, uneasily. “Even wearing your body felt more comfortable than my backups. I prefer to remain me.”

It wasn’t strictly true. He’d worn some of his other options before. Occasionally when one of Heaven’s missions left him no choice. Occasionally, when he was alone, he took them out and studied them. None of them has fucked or been fucked by the demon.

There’s a bonnie blonde one whose smile puts the sun to shame. There’s a chubby Ganesh form, too many limbs, with scrolls and calligraphy brushes, and always a candy to sweeten any lesson. There’s a tender, dark-skinned girl who looks like Eve’s own little sister. Even when he sees their eyes, he fails to feel at ease.

He must admit, he likes his ordinary body. He loves it. Even the wrinkles that add gentle age and bewildered uncertainty to his expression. He loves the soft tummy, and the rounded bum. And the wedge-shaped duck feet. He loves how he looks, and moves. He feels like himself. When he stands in front of Crowley, dressed or naked, aroused or not, he always feels like himself. Whether he approaches the demon, or the demon approaches him, their caresses feel grounded; their passion feels natural.

There is no other body he loves so well, except that it be one of Crowley’s two “home base” bodies—a different sort of love entirely. He could not say which of the two he’d choose. Aziraphale thinks maybe both: Crowley the Cool, who dominates the options, so familiar Aziraphale did not even have to ask about which one he is: red hair, long gazehound face and body. And then there’s She-Crowley, the avatar who had performed Nanny Ashtoreth: barely different, though definitely “differently bare,” (as Crowley delights in pointing out). She-Crowley has tits like fresh burrata—tiny and soft and tender and milky. Or like ripe figs, with a velvet-soft skin and hard, firm nipples. She-Crowley’s kisses burn like Hellfire, only blissful Hellfire. She-Crowley’s pussy taught Aziraphale things about sex he hadn’t known he needed to know—that “tight” was not the only measure of satisfaction. Not when compared to smooth, sleek, moist comfort and control.

Aziraphale had given none of the Crowleys access to his own other bodies. His private bodies. Only the one—his “real” body. He had no desire to.

Except…

He closed his eyes, took a breath, changed—then dared to look.

He seldom took her out and put her on. He hid her in the closet of his potential…the woman he might be, were he not Aziraphale as he is.

This one.

She was different from the others. Like his primary body, she was not young. Like his primary body, there was nonetheless something fragile and young and vulnerable in her eyes. Her skin, just beginning to relax and wrinkle with age, looked soft in a special way. A baby would long to reach out and pat one rounded cheek. Her mouth was as tender pink as Aziraphale’s “own lips,” but more full. She, too, was solid and cobby. She was broad chested, deep-breasted, each round plush tit more than a handful, with a deep sway as he— _she_ moved. Her belly bowed out like a mound of pasta, piled high and allowed to sprawl and drape. Her feet were wide and short, with straight toes that fortunately did not fold under or jostle for room. Her ankles were trim, leading up to firm calves. Aziraphale had learned to approve of that shape in generation after generation among humanity, hearing men whistle their approval as petticoats swung and skirts were tugged high to go over puddles and stiles.

Her eyes were the same blue washed with dappled bronze as Aziraphale’s own.

This body frightened him. He could love it as dearly as he loved “his own.” But then who would he be?

Heaven is an unsettling place. Gender is assumed—as in “put on.” Unless angels make an effort, they are no gender at all. Or both? Or---Whatever. The angels regard gender with a trace of prudish suspicion. God says startlingly little about sex and gender. Heaven and Hell? Somewhat more, each sending out minions to convince the humans that those bodies, those genders, the acts taken with those bodies and through those genders are sinful.

Different angels feel different ways about it all.

In this body, Aziraphale suspected everything would be different. Food would taste more intense. Colors would be more saturated. Pain would be slower to actually be painful—but the scars left by pain would last longer.

Sex would be different. More complicated. More personal. Harder to accomplish. More dangerous.

In this body, what happened would be permanent and real in a way only his ordinary body approached—but with no defenses in place.

This body was virgin, as Aziraphale’s ordinary body had not been since soon after the Garden. This body would care about things, as he had permitted himself to care about very little since the Garden. He learned far too brutally that outside the Garden, things “died.”

Not a good word.

Once he understood “dies,” he stopped regretting giving away the flaming sword. At the same time, he clung more tightly to his alliance with Heaven. He knew two outcomes to failing Heaven, now, both bad. He chose loyalty to the Good…

A scrap of human poetry slipped through his mind…

“Margaret are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you with your fresh thoughts care for—can you?”

That poem belonged to this body, she thought. She claimed it, clutching it tight before He took back identity—angry and frightened that she…

Margaret?

She had claimed her existence for that one blinding moment, leaving a whisper of remembered immortality for his Aziraphale self. (“Ah, as the heart grows older, it will come to such sights colder, by and by, nor spare a sigh though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie…”)

And yet—he approached the mirror. Moss-and-blue eyes studied each other. A cupid’s bow mouth risked a hesitant, shy smile. One square hand ran over the radical sway of curve and swell.

Aziraphale heard his beloved return downstairs in the shop below—the tinkle of the bell, then the sound of the demon locking up. A stop for a bottle of something from the wine cellar. The lope of footsteps up the stairs.

Crowley tapped at Aziraphale’s door. “Oi—Angel? You decent?”

The woman in the mirror smiled, wry. Aziraphale had taught the demon not to burst in—he found it unsettling. This was more unsettling, though.

Was she decent? She didn’t know.

For a moment the image wavered in the mirror—a wildfire of crisp waves almost replacing a softer, curlier mop of moonlight curls. Then something shifted _inside_ , in Aziraphale’s spirit.

“Not hardly—but come in anyway, my dear.”

The door eased open, and Crowley slinked in. Slinking suited him. For a moment he seemed unaware of his lover’s “cross dressing.” Then expressive brows flashed high over the frames of his dark glasses.

“Whoa. Sweetheart!” There was both welcome and delight in his voice—and caution. He was not a stupid serpent. “Look at you, there, gorgeous!” He pushed the glasses down his nose with his free hand, still clutching wine bottle and crystal goblets in the other. His golden eyes gazed at this new, female Aziraphale. He whistled—a fond whistle backed by a fond smile. “Never shown me this one, have you?”

It was a rhetorical question, with no actual uncertainty in it, and Aziraphel was comforted. He could not have borne for Crowley not to realize that this—this was special. This was unprecedented. Crowley had seen a very few of his female avatars, for very short moments. But never this one, ever.

“No.”

He said nothing more, and waited in terrified uncertainty as the demon examined the woman before him and the woman in the mirror. One woman; two perspectives. The demon looked away after a moment. He opened the wine bottle, poured out two glasses of wine, and gave one to Aziraphale.

“To perfect beauty,” he said, face sober. Then—“Is she your design, or…” he jerked his chin up, a head-toss like a stallion, indicating Herself Above.

“God’s own handiwork,” Aziraphale said, ruefully. “As much so as the other.” An angel or a demon could choose a look, and create a form. But this, like his male body, was God’s design.

Silence fell between them, as they sipped their wine. After some time, Aziraphale said, “I was right. The wine—it’s so intense. It would take me years to teach this body objectivity. The highs are too high. The lows…I’d be afraid of the lows.”

Understanding shimmers in the demon’s eyes. And, yet…

And yet he puts aside his glass, and says, quietly, “May I? Make love to you?” one hand arching to embrace the air as though it were her waist.

Aziraphale shivered.

“Maybe.” Then, moved by hidden currents, said, “Shes…Margaret. Her name is Margaret.”

“Because she is a pearl of great price,” said Crowley, and drew her to him, and kissed her throat.

She moaned, softly—so very softly it almost wasn’t a cry.

Crowley sat on the edge of Aziraphale’s writing desk, pulling her with him, then embracing her between his lean thighs. His arms spidered around her, and he nuzzled and nosed through the tumble of curls that framed her face and decked her shoulders. His tongue, gone part-serpent, flickered and tasted, sampling the scents and salts. “Ssssssame…but not-sssssssame,” he hwhispered. “Sssssso good. Sssssssweet, angel. Swwwwweet.”

Clever fingers found their way down her spine. She shivered. She’d been right—it was intense in ways she could not have even guessed. Her nipples ached for him without ever having known his touch before. Her pussy…

Ah, that was different. The longing and the desire, but the liquid pulse and grip at the same time. She could feel herself growing wet. She could feel her nerves light up. She could feel the desire like hunger—no. Starvation. Need.

She nestled close and chased kisses over her lover’s ear. Down his throat—such a long, elegant throat! Her hands sought out his arm, traced to find a hand, drew the hand to her breast, placed the fingers on her nipple—and then she gasped, nearly doubled over by the jolt connecting tit and clit and inner sliding grip.

“God!” She cringed. Somehow calling Herself out in mid-lovemaking felt different in this new, clean, intense body. And, yet, her he-self had done so without shame or shock…

Crowley, unaware of the blitz, touched and gripped, teased. His erection, trapped by his jeans, rubbed against her mons and poked her lower belly. One hand slid down and cupped a buttock, and she gasped again.

“Crowley—you go too fast for me.” She was near tears, unready for this. She had expected it all to be harder, more difficult. Instead this body—this Margaret—reacted faster than she could keep up with. This body took her away from herself, as though it owned the angel, rather than the angel owning it.

Crowley slowed, pulled back. “Cuddle on the bed?”

It seemed worth a chance. Aziraphale—Margaret—allowed herself to be moved, then watched in lazy pleasure as her demon stripped before joining her.

“You are beautiful,” she said, seeing him with both old and new understanding. “I love the shape of your stomach.” She smiled. “It bows in like mine bows out. I bet they fit.”

“I bet they do, angel.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, and smoothed her riot of curls from her brow. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Not sure at all—but I’m choosing to do it anyway.” She shivered. “I—She—I’ve never done this. In this body. In any girl’s body. I don’t know what to expect.”

Crowley blinked, then nodded. “You don’t seem to be having trouble responding.”

“No.” There was a world of irony in her response. “Rather the opposite. I didn’t know…I think I could come just from your hands on my breast, my dear.” The entire notion is terrifying. “It’s like all the nerves are on fire, and I can almost track the flame from breast to crotch, and all points in between. And almost anything you touch—cares.”

She fights back a giggle, as compassion and sudden lusty greed battle on his narrow greyhound face.

“I’ll try to be careful,” he said. His face and voice said he didn’t want to be careful in the least. “Let me know if… Tell me what to do, angel.”

“You’re asking the wrong body,” she said, tart and amused. “That other one—he knows his body and yours backward and forward. This one’s a virgin.”

Then Aziraphale has to laugh—and laugh. And laugh. The naked, arched beauty of Crowley’s cock bounces in thrilled excitement, overwhelmed.

“Oh, my God, it’s like a puppy,” Margaret chortled, one hand leaping up and down to mimic the twitching response. “Hot! Sexy! Virgin! Cunt! Yip-yip-yipeeeeeeeeee!” The laughter pours out, and pours, filling the little room with the first real moment of shared familiarity between this new body and this old, familiar lover.

Crowley grinned—serpent and wolf and greyhound and most of all loving predator. “Boys just wanna have fun,” he said, cheerfully, then lay beside her and hugged her close and made silly noises as he nuzzled and blew raspberries on her soft skin.

At last they calmed, and returned to serious love making. His mouth found her breast, and he suckled—first tender, then with greater power and snag of teeth and flicker of tongue.

It was as good as she’d thought. When one of his hands found her other breast, she squirmed, panting. “Go easy, or I’ll blow.”

“If you want, you can.”

“Don’t want.” She didn’t want. She wanted to learn what this private, passionate body would feel like making love to her demon lover—all of her impaled. “Here. Let me try…” She rose, then, and moved him to lie beneath her, and straddled his hips.

“Hold it, angel. Do you know…” He blushed, then—her serpent, always more shy and more emotionally vulnerable than he pretended. “Do you know if you’re…intact?”

She frowned. “Fairly sure.” Then, “Oh! Um…no. No idea.”

“Ok. Then go easy?”

She considered, then nodded. “May need some help for the first main thrust,” she commented. “I’ll let you know.” She lined them up, and hovered, feeling the damp, tender tip of his cock pressing between the slick folds of her labia. Her inner muscles clutched, hungry for something to clutch against.

She hesitated.

“I haven’t been doing much for you,” she said, suddenly guilty—and annoyed. Her male self knew better! “What can I do for you?”

Snake eyes blinked—inner lid. Outer lid. Open again—his expression between laughter and frustration. “Stop hovering.” Then, with a stressed chuckle, “Angel—you’re giving me first access to a completely new virgin body. A responsive, hot new virgin body. Real virgin—your body’s not the only part of you who hasn’t done this. Just knowing that has me on a hair trigger…” The ache in his voice almost drowned out the laughter.

Oh.

Oh…

She shivered. He wanted her. Not just her he-self.

The tangle of thoughts and feelings shattered inside, wild and heady. Fear—He-Aziraphale’s fear that his male lover would prefer his female body. Delight—that it might be both—both bodies good for this. Fear—that it was about to happen, and could never un-happen. (Without arcane help from either Herself or Adam…)

She locked eyes with her demon, her serpent, her beloved. Slowly she lowered herself, fingers reaching down, parting labia, guiding his cock, until she felt the strain and pull—tight. Just a bit painful.

“Help?” She was afraid. Not terrified. But—this had not been a problem before. She could, perhaps, miracle the obstruction away?

“Sshhhhh. Let me help. Touch your breasts. Think about earlier, when we were…” as Crowley spoke, his hand slipped under her thighs and the keel of her pubis. His hand turned, and his fingers found her lips, and traced them up until he could part them and find her clit.

She moaned, pinching her own nipples—embarrassed as his golden eyes watched her pinching her own nipples. She felt his fingers circle and tease. Her hips rolled, matching his motion, finding his hips rolling gently in time.

“You’re beautiful, angel,” Crowley whispered. “Sssssso swwweet.”

Her pulse had run wild again. She was embarrassed and at the same time bold with her own need. She felt strong—and helpless. She felt pure—and sinful and wrong. She felt perfectly at home in this odd body, so responsive, so hungry, so lustful. She felt alien and alone, terrified to be leaving the familiar solidity of her other self.

Maybe she should have started with anal. She understood anal. She’d done that before. This?

The world rocked beneath her, a ship at sea. The pressure of his cock was firm and hard. They rose—fell. Rose—fell. Then she was falling and he was rising and there was a sense of pain, and he popped through and dove deep. The feeling was…

Thick. Pressing. Her muscles clamped around him, tight and hard as a Chinese thumb trap, clutching tight. Her clit, full and tender from his touch, jerked and seemed to rise up proud, seeking more. Her nipples were fat and so overcome with the sensation of touch they almost seemed to need pain—harder, tighter, pinch more…

Something was uncoiling inside her, like a mighty serpent in her guts.

She had never seen a serpent larger than Crowley. Even in the first years of knowing each other, he’d been a monster. Human he was over six feet tall—but as a snake, to maintain proportions, he was closer to fifteen. Huge. Now, after six millennia, he was draconic when he chose to manifest his full snake.

That’s what it felt like…not just the cock filling her, the desire unfolding and unfolding and unfolding, the heat flowing in her veins, the longing dancing on her nerves. It was too much. She was afraid of it—more desire than her old body had ever channeled. More feeling than she knew how to control.

“I can’t…” She could hear her own voice, on the edge of panic.

“You can, angel,” Crowley said, though he slowed his pace, drew his touch from her clit. “I’ll stop. But—you can do this. I promise, you’re not in any kind of danger right now.”

She was in danger of dying, though she didn’t know of what—or whether she would be dying, or her he-self would.

He loved sex. He had loved sex like he loved oysters and fine wine and tiny little macarons with raspberry jam. He had enjoyed the Greek forums and the Roman baths and the private little men’s clubs—when he chose to make the effort. He loved his body. He loved the world.

This was so like—and so unlike. So beyond.

And yet—she loved this. She loved the chance at life, withheld for so long. She loved their demon beneath her, loving, talented, amazing.

“Yes,” she said, and dropped herself down his shaft. “More. More, damn it.”

He drove up. She drove down. His fingers moved again, using her own slick to lubricate her.

“Hunt for it, angel,” he whispered. “Hunt it, hunt it. Hold your breath and seek it out.”

“Uhnnn…” It wasn’t there, but it rose its head up, cobra-like, a world-snake, owning her.

Owning her.

It took her—wave after wave.

She shot the wave…mind gone. Nothing but exploding pleasure.

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”

Somewhere in the world outside her own orgasm she heard him go off, tripped by her own reaction. She drove against him, felt the wave rise up again, higher still, higher, and the climax returning, more overwhelming than before.

“Oh. Oh. Oh-my-God…”

She no longer cared if she cried out for Herself as she came—all she had was Crowley, and Crowley’s coming, and her own, and the surging mental explosion…

And another…milder.

And another.

And then one last surge came, passed through her, and was gone, leaving her lying across her demon’s chest, panting and sweat-covered and amazed and slightly empty.

First empty in mind and soul. Then, as Crowley slipped out of her, empty in body.

A wistful ache sighed—and was gone.

His arms went up around her shoulders. She felt him flex and twist, to lean up far enough to kiss the top of her skull.

Margaret sighed, and reached up, finding his face by touch alone. She caressed his lips.

He didn’t ask if she’d liked it. She didn’t thank him for the ride. Somehow they were beyond that. He-Aziraphale and She-Margaret dwelt together…at peace. Mutually contented with each other.

“I want a shower,” she said after a bit. “And then—I think I want to get back into my ‘old clothes.’ I… that was a lot to think about.”

She heard Crowley’s serpentine snigger, hissing breath and fluttering stomach muscles. “You are beautiful either way, angel” he said, a smile in his voice. “But—yeah. Go shower. Get back into your everyday. I’ll be here waiting when you’re done.”

Aziraphale nodded.

In the shower she explored her body. There was blood. Not much. A raw little tear in the skin around her vagina. She miracled healing, but left the new, stretched room. No point having to do that again. Once was enough. She washed her hair, then stepped out of the old claw-foot tub, sliding the curtain away.

She examined herself in the bathroom mirror.

A body not young, and not old. Wrinkles? A few. A tumble of gleaming curls. A face that even she thought seemed—kind. A smile she could get used to. Deep breasts, the nipples plummy and plump from lovemaking. A belly curved like a shallow basket. Wide hips.

She felt—at ease, in this body. As comfortable as she had felt in her he-body, though not yet as familiar.

She closed her eyes and called back the feeling of Crowley’s lips on her tit. The fullness of him inside her pussy. The tenderness of his fingers. The patience. The kindness. The love…

She matched it, memory for memory, with her lover attending to her he-self.

It was almost too much.

She smiled—a Mona Lisa smile. Then, with a shimmer, she took her he-self back.

Aziraphale blinked in the harsh light of the lavatory.

This was his body, he thought.

This was who he was.

But he was Margaret, now, too.

He thought, grinning, he’d probably survive.

When he returned to his bed, his lover was ready for him, a nest built to hold them, all messes miracled away. Gold eyes met blue-bronze, in love beyond measure.

Crowley sang, teasingly, “I kissed a girl and I liked it…”

He got a pillow strike to the head for his efforts—and then an armful of angel.

Soon after, they both got new glasses of wine, and toasted the world, as had come to be their habit. And then they slept, content, and Margaret slept, at one with them.


End file.
